Camp Milford: Daddy Mar

PART 1

The camp was a small, family-owned operation, so my role there was all-encompassing. Officially, my title was Camp Support Specialist, and I did everything administrative, corresponded with guests, checked people in, and even turned over cabins with fresh linens. I started working at Camp Milford in my early twenties. It never was going to be a career, but I really enjoyed the work. I did everything with pride, greeting people with a smile and happily giving tours through the wooded grounds.

The camp itself was a network of winding roads, intersecting and diverging from one another, forming an incomprehensible web of dirt paths. The landscape of the camp had developed organically over years, branching out to connect this cabin with another. With a romantic outlook, you could say it was like a backwoods version of a European street layout: charmingly carved without any thought for efficiency. It made driving our camp ATVs around so fun, up this hill, down the other. Beautiful views would reveal themselves at the end of unfinished paths, clear and spacious, through pine trees into the surrounding mountains. Being at the camp was therapeutic for me, blending nature with socializing and making money. I absolutely loved it.

Fall was one of the best times of the year at Camp Milford. The towering trees formed arching cathedral ceilings above our senseless pathways. The maple trees would flamboyantly display their colors and their leaves seemed to fall in slow motion. The light on a clear fall day here was indescribable. Bright sun and crisp blue sky. It was a pleasure to walk to and from cabins even if it was menial labor. This leafy part of camp contrasted with the north side, which was dense with towering pines. We called this section 'the loop,' which was noticeably dim during the day, and deep black during the night. Riding an ATV on the loop was definitely the preferred mode of transportation in the evening, walking the loop at night was unsettling. Even with a bright flashlight you could only see the area it illuminated. But the moon, the stars, and how sublimely quiet this area got at night made it seem otherworldly compared to my evenings in the city nowadays.

Apart from the forested areas of the camp, the working and living quarters had charm of their own. The camp office was in a large but simply constructed building--a simple roofline with a wrap-around porch. Arriving guests would queue under the shade of the porch to speak to me and receive their keys at the start of summer.

Connected to the office were the lower showers and bathrooms. The facilities were comically outdated, with faded posters of national parks, a few rickety benches made from two-by-fours, and sinks with the laminate peeling off in sections. There were typical bathroom stalls, equipped with toilets that emptied into an abysmal pit. Stained urinals with leaky plumbing. A line of four showers at the end of the narrow room. The smell was like you've smelled before, lingering urine with a hint of air freshener. A definite sour trace of male sweat from someone that had just showered but since left. I always found this bathroom erotic. I think it was the rawness of the no-frills space, the thought of all the men that had showered here, exposed themselves, walked around confidently in their older age, hairy cocks swinging, pissing naked, shaving their necks and leaving razors behind.

There was something about showering here. Despite it potentially being described as disgusting, I found it so liberating. I loved when men would accidentally leave behind a bar of soap. The fact that it had rubbed up and down their thick bodies, gliding through layers of wet, curly body hair, slipping down inevitably to their warm and relaxed daddy cock. It would turn me on to get naked and rub the same soap all over myself. I even loved the stereotypical masculine scents of the soaps, the way that those scents remind you of aftershaves of men that were around when you were just beginning to develop an interest in male bodies.

So despite having my own private shower in my staff cabin, I showered here. But I swear I had other hobbies around camp. Building the bonfire is always fun. Collecting dry wood, loading it in the small ATV trailer, then stacking it perfectly and lighting it up. The flames would be at least ten feet tall and throw heat a good 20-30 feet from the logs. When I have a weekend off the clock, I enjoy taking a few shrooms and having a nature walk in serene solitude, or sharing a small joint with one of my staff friends.

The people that work at the camp are generally all very nice, mostly older, and some around my age that I get along with well. Some are lifers, and some come and go for a season. In addition to the support staff, there are managers, cleaning staff, and maintenance guys for a lack of a better term. The maintenance men handle the tougher jobs, like dealing with fallen trees, or placing a prefabricated cabin in the right spot.

Some of these guys were skinny and big into drugs, some around my age and seemed to have tough lives, and there were the older guys who were in their mid-forties to early-sixties. Mark stood out from this group. He was around 50 and seemed to keep up with going to the gym. When I first started working at the camp he was my only hobby. I would take in his every mannerism, the way he cuffed his pine-sap stained Carhartts, his slightly aggressive posture as he would speed by on an ATV. He would wear these old baggy tees to work, with micro holes in them, probably from getting snagged by branches. His collars always seemed to be slightly frayed. He wouldn't be caught dead without his baseball cap, which hid his bald head. You could tell he was a bit self-conscious about being bald from the way he reacted to his co-workers' jokes about it.

Another thing about Mark that I was admittedly obsessed with was his smell. He definitely wore some sort of drugstore deodorant which I could only smell in the morning when he clocked in next to my desk. By the afternoon when he would leave for the day, my God. He would come into the office exhausted, with a ring of sweat around his t-shirt. The scent of his sweat brought me to the brink of erotic insanity. Before going to sleep in my cabin I would fantasize, begging him to lick his hairy pits and clean the entire day off of him. Just him walking by would make my cock start to swell. I lived for a whiff of that man's scent. It was almost too much to think about what his undoubtedly fat cock smelled like after a day of work. I knew he rarely shaved so I was sure that his pubes would catch every bead of his sweat. I wanted so badly to bury my face into him, to make him feel good. And to see what sort of contortions his ruddy face would make as I got him close to pumping a thick white load into my willing hole.

I know he knew I was gay. I didn't hide it. And some coworkers made jokes about me being boyfriends with some of the less attractive camp-goers. He never seemed to react. I only had a few passing conversations with him. He was always cheerful and I had this inner knowing that he loved this camp just as much as I did. I could tell he was kind, sweet even in the way he spoke. He had a big laugh. I hadn't realized my aching desire for older men until I was around Mark. His strong body and self-assured humility were qualities I didn't see in guys my age. I found the fact that he was bald so endearingly masculine.

After a few years of working at the camp I had seen a few of my fellow staff members shirtless, or naked in the communal shower. Mark lived nearby so he didn't use the facilities much, but on a warm day in September last year, he flipped his ATV on a muddy patch of the loop. He limped up to the office with half his face covered in mud. His wrist looked swollen. His sleeveless tee revealed bloody scratches up his right arm. After he told me what happened he insisted he was alright and was going to quickly shower before heading to the ER. Of course I was hoping he was ok, but admittedly I also knew this was going to be an opportunity for me.

My heart started racing as he disappeared into the communal bathroom. On the other side of that wall was going to be a dirty, naked, Mark. Until this point I had been getting myself off with a memory of how his forearms looked stacking wood, and how his veiny hands would look gripping my rib cage. My mind raced, looking for a casual and fool-proof way I could get a glimpse of his body.

I abandoned my desk post. I walked quietly into the bathroom. I could hear wet slaps of the shower water hitting the gritty floor. From the far end of the room, I could tell which stall he was in. Second from left. His clothes were on the bench, his muddy pants and damp boxers were sitting there. I had lost my mind. I grabbed his sweat-drenched boxers and cupped them hard over my face, and inhaled. They were soaked with his man stench, absolutely soaked. It smelled like the rankest man balls and a full day of musky movement. I sucked his scent into the deepest depths of my nose, three times, begging myself to remember exactly this smell.

I held them away from me, admiring them for a second before I stuck my tongue out wide, and violently and repeatedly licked where his cock would've pressed against the thin, plaid fabric. It was sour, wet. I bit down on the fabric, sucked on it and made it drip with my own spit just to suck out any of his body's flavor that I could. I bit down on the middle seam that would press up against his hairy taint, licked, bit and sucked. I was in ecstasy. Enough. I quickly placed them back in his pants, exactly as they were.

I noticed his boots and work socks sitting under the bench, flippantly ripped off as he got in the shower. I quickly got down on my knees and put the lower half of my face inside his muddy unlaced boot. It was warm and damp inside, like a wet cave of man. It was a rich, pungent smell and I huffed it as deep as I could a few times. I set the boot down and grabbed one of his thick wool work socks. I balled it up and stuffed as much of it into my mouth as I could. I packed it in, writhing my tongue along its rough wet fabric.

His frosted shower curtain was drawn shut, but the small window above the shower was letting in enough light so I could almost see his naked silhouette. I got closer. The shower curtain ended about two feet from the ground, so I could see the backs of his calves. There were suds gliding down his hairy legs, across the span of his feet. I carefully got closer, about five feet from the curtain. I watched his big calloused feet rotate, turning his body under the steaming water. I was hypnotized by his big hairy man feet. They were beautiful. I felt myself salivate at the thought of him rubbing his big soles all over my face. He cleared his throat and I twitched. He turned the shower off. I knew I had some time but I hurried over to a urinal, unbuttoned my fly and stood as if I was taking a piss. He ripped open the shower curtain, jangling the rings. My heart was beating out of my chest. I was going to see daddy Mark in all his glory-- his towel was on the bench next to the urinals.

I turned away from my fake urination and went to wash my hands. The mirror in front of the sinks gave a clear view of the changing benches. I looked up, and it was like slow motion. Mark came into the frame of the mirror. My stomach clenched as if I was about to go over a roller coaster. He walked very slowly, step by step, staring down into his phone and typing. The first thing I noticed was how deliciously hairy his thick daddy thighs were. The curly body hair was still wet and stuck to his legs. He took another step and revealed a mouth-watering flaccid cock, buried in a thick mass of both gray and dark pubes. The head of his dick was a deep red-purple. It came to an almost pointed end. It was animalistic in its presentation.

The smooth, hairless shaft of his cock hung heavily, the whole mass wagging back and forth. As I washed my hands, I imagined laying down with my head off the side of a bed, as he inserted himself slowly, deeply, into my begging, desperate throat. My heart stopped beating as he sat down on the bench facing the mirror. In a casual display of his manhood, he sat with his legs spread wide. His freshly-showered loose balls touched down first on the top of the old changing bench. I could get a full view now-- exactly how hairy he was. His chest hair connected with his armpit hair. He was covered. His beefy chest hung on his frame. He didn't have a six pack, it was a belly covered in dark hair. His dark nipples were large, bigger than I was expecting.

He was still typing on his phone and took a deep breath, itching the back of his head, he exposed his gloriously hairy, wet pits. I had to physically resist lunging at him. I was shaking. I needed to lick his body. Consume him as he was deep inside me. To have his pit in my face as I licked and licked and smelled while he ground his cock deep inside my red hole.

He scratched his pubes with his thick dad hand and looked up at me, "I think my wrist is broken."